The Middle Kingdom
by Klipspringer
Summary: The distant relative of a WWI flying ace joins the Legion and elsewhere a plot of questionable morals begins to unfold... My periods and commas at the end of dialogue keep getting eaten by ff.net. Will attempt to ensure against it in future.
1. A New Recruit

**A/N: **As the movie's history was a bit distorted, so shall this fic's be. Sorry for all the purist history buffs out there.

**Disclaimer: **Yes, yes, original characters of the movie do not belong to me. But Lufbery does.

**1**

**a new recruit**

The sky was clear and rainwashed, a pristine blue that was slightly grayed by the early morning light. And in this sweeping tapestry of skyscape, a distant, dark speck marred the otherwise clean azure, growing larger by the moment. Beneath this fresh October sky there was a wide airfield, and on this airfield was a man with binoculars. Through the binoculars he stared, training his sights on the dark speck. After a moment, he grunted in satisfaction, took a cigarette from his pocket and lit it.

As the speck fast approached, it gradually shaped itself into the form of a biplane. It swooped gently down, circled the airfield once, and then came down to land, bouncing once or twice before coming to a halt. The man took a pull from his cigarette and tapped the ashes from it, watching the pilot climb from his seat. As he unwrapped his scarf from around his face, the man could see what the others had been talking about. Yes, his features were remarkably alike...

"Mr. Lufbery?" the man called. He exhaled a cloud of smoke. Lufbery frowned and drew near.

"I am. And you are?"

"Mr. Charles Lufbery?"

"The very one, sir. Might I ask who you might be?"

"Damn cold up there, and you're wearing those boots?" the man asked, ignoring Lufbery's inquiry. The pilot looked down at his thin boots and was sharply reminded that his feet were completely numb.

"I'll wear what I want, sir."

"If it suits you," replied the stranger, taking a pull from his cigarette. He walked past Lufbery, who frowned in distinct dislike. Circling the biplane, the man took it in with sharp, dark eyes, and finally said after a heavy silence, "A Nieuport 17. An old plane, don't you think?"

"I'll fly what I want, sir," Lufbery said, tempted to let loose some biting remarks. "And, one more time, sir, you are?"

"I'm a representative of Sky Captain's Flying Legion, and I've come to offer you a commission in his ranks," the stranger said abruptly. "A sergeant's commission, but I daresay that's adequate enough for you." Lufbery fell into a dumb silence, torn between suspicion, anger and outright awe. He decided to ignore the man's slight, and remained quiet.

"You'll be equipped with your own plane...the newest technology that the Legion can afford," the stranger continued, taking ample pulls at his cigarette and exhaling a correspondingly ample supply of smoke. He eyed the Nieuport with a doubtful eye, and Lufbery squirmed in his flight suit. Of all days, why did Sky Captain's representative have to come when he flew an antiquated plane?

"It's not old if you consider I'm not shooting anything down with it," he protested, but his voice was soft and barely audible. No smart pilot argued with Sky Captain's representative - but the representative heard, and he scowled a warning.

"Sky Captain's going to need the...well, the best pilots available pretty soon, Mr. Lufbery. With the Germans positioned as they are...Well, I needn't say anymore, do I?" Lufbery merely nodded. Yes, the Germans were getting out of hand, and any military man could sense the impending storm. After violating several guidelines set down by the Treaty of Versailles, and the French frantically seeking the support of reluctant Britain, it seemed everything would wind up in some violent, bloody clash, no matter what the British diplomats said.

"Do you accept, Mr. Lufbery?" Lufbery needed no further prompt.

"I'd be honored, sir," he said, now oblivious to the man's crude bearing.

"Very well," said the stranger, looking angrily disappointed. Lufbery bore it without even a mental flinch. For this honor, he could tolerate near anything. "I've got the paperwork done. I have here a ticket for a train bound to Gotham, where you'll meet the rest of your squadron and then go onward to France." The man held out the ticket, but when Lufbery tried to take it he withdrew from Lufbery's reach.

"Mr. Lufbery, the Flying Legion expects the best of every one of its men. Are you prepared?"

"On my life, sir," Lufbery replied. The man watched him for a moment, the clear, dark eyes drilling deep into Lufbery's expression. After a moment of this, he handed Lufbery the ticket.

"Welcome to the Flying Legion, Mr. Lufbery."


	2. Loveberry

**2**

**"loveberry"**

Polly Perkins was in a very bad sort of mood. And when Polly Perkin was in a bad mood, she usually had some sort of absurd reason as to why she was in one. This particular mood came about because a certain pilot had refused to take her across the Atlantic to Paris. Instead, she was to go on United Airways flight, which was in comparison a far more comfortable journey than being stuffed into the cockpit of a Warhawk. Her complaint was not about the comfort, however, but the company.

"Joe, Joe, Joe," she sighed, tilting her hat to a more rakish angle. She scowled at her reflection. "He certainly knows how to treat a woman right, doesn't he?" She adjusted her purse, looked in to catch a quick peek at her camera and the extra rolls of film, and walked briskly from the powder room out in the crowded airport. A glance up at the board where hasty letters had been manually hung read: _UA 58 BOUND FOR ICELAND; PARIS: 11:30 AM, GATE 3._

Polly glanced at her watch. 11:12. She still had some time. Skirting round a man and his luggage, she slid into a private phone booth and dialed a familiar number.

"Editor Paley, the _Chronicle_," said the voice at one end.

"Mr. Paley? It's Polly Perkins. I have a suspicious lead from a tip-off in Shanghai, something about a Japanese weapon. I know it sounds far-fetched, but if I can get there..." A pause.

"Aren't you with Joseph now?" Paley asked, a touch of amusement in his voice. "I don't think he'll like being steered towards China."

"I'll get him there eventually," Polly said.

"I hear Nanjing's had some bad memories for you."

"I'm not upset over Nanjing anymore," said Polly, rolling her eyes as she heard Paley laugh softly on the other end. "Stop it."

"I'm stopping."

"I'm serious."

"I'm not laughing."

"I'm sure you aren't."

"All right, Polly. Get on the story. But be safe and don't jump onto any rockets this time."

"No need to worry about that, Mr. Paley."

"Don't forget extra film."

"I've taken care of that," Polly said with a smile. She hung up and pushed the glass door open. The man and his luggage were still there, joined by another man in a flight jacket. She didn't give them much thought - pilots in an airport were a common sight - until she heard, "Harker, Benjamin Harker." She stopped in her tracks, turned around with as much dignity as she could muster. The two men gave her puzzled expressions as she stared back at them for a few moments.

"Did you say Benjamin Harker?"

"Benjamin Harker at your service," said the man in the flight jacket, smiling broad but bewildered grin.

"You're a new pilot for the Flying Legion, aren't you?" Polly rummaged through her purse, producing a list she had conveniently copied from Joe's desk. Scanning the list, she saw it: _Sgt. Benjamin Harker, 29_. "Polly Perkins, the _Chronicle's_, er, Legion correspondent." She extended a hand, and Harker took it, shaking it firmly. Polly turned to the other man with a questioning look.

"Charles Loveberry," Harker put in for him. "At least, I think that's his name."

"Charles Lufbery," Lufbery said. "Just Charlie." He smiled awkwardly, and Polly smiled back. Perhaps her company on the plane wouldn't be so bad after all.

**Cielag** – Wow, Cielag, I'm intimidated to have a reader of your experience. Hmm, this is more set in the pre-war period, but just barely—maybe 1936 or 1937. Thank you for your review.


	3. An Offer

**3**

**an offer**

Joe didn't really like cars. They were intolerably close to the ground - low, slow, and unexciting. In the sky, one did not get stuck in traffic, or have to follow any roads. On the ground, the solid, unmoving ground, one did. But right now, he was in one. He tilted his fedora back on his head, leaned forward, and stared down the long stretch of street, so unlike the free air above.

"You should get her some flowers."

"Dex, no," Joe sighed, exasperated. Dex fell silent and chewed his gum noisily for a few moments before saying, "You really should. Ladies like that."

"Oh, and you know what ladies like, do you?"

"More than you, Cap," Dex said, staring absently out the window. Joe muttered something nasty beneath his breath and suddenly braked. Before Dex could make any comment on his poor driving, the pilot had thrown open the door and hopped out. He crossed the street and approached a small flower stand.

"Those, please," he said, pointing at a bouquet of red roses. He fumbled for change, and as he did so he failed to notice another car stopping behind his own, and another man climbing out. With his hat pushed forward to shadow his brown eyes, the stranger watched Joe pay for the flowers before saying, with a slight accent, "Nice flowers. For who?"

Joe turned, startled. "A lady." His eyes narrowed in a suspicious scowl. The man was Asian with deathly pale skin, a little shorter but older than Joe. His features wore an expression of smugness but beneath it lurked a keen alertness.

"Sky Captain, we have an offer for you. There would be wealth beyond your wildest dreams if we succeed."

"Who's 'we'?" Joe asked. The man merely smirked. With one white-gloved hand he pulled a card out of his coat and handed it to the pilot. Joe examined it carefully. One one side were some pictographs - Chinese characters - on the other was a stylised drawing of an Oriental unicorn. Joe's brow knit in confusion.

"I can't read this," he said, looking up. But the Asian man was gone, as well as the car behind his own. All there was left was an impatient Dex, tapping his watch.

"What took you so long?" he asked after Joe climbed back into the car. The pilot threw the flowers carelessly onto the backseat and handed Dex the card.

"A man gave me his card," he said shortly as he started up the car. Dex was still carefully looking at the card as they pulled out onto the road.

"It's Chinese," he announced. Joe raised an eyebrow.

"I didn't realize that, Dex. Thank you for clearing that up."

"You're welcome, Cap" Dex said, ignoring Joe's sarcasm. He stuffed the card into his pocket, and gave it no more thought.

**xxx**

"You're half an hour late," Polly said. Joe pecked her cheek.

"I have a good reason."

"Oh? And what is that?"

"I got you flowers," Joe said, smiling broadly. Dex trotted up on cue and delivered them into Polly's hands. The reporter stared for a moment and then said, "Dex suggested them, didn't he?" Joe nodded, but Polly simply laughed and threw her arms around her shoulders as well as she could with a bouquet in her hands. "It's nice to see you again too, Joe." Behind her, facing Joe, Dex simply winked and grinned.

"How was the ride?"

"Nicer than a Warhawk," Polly said, releasing Joe and extricating some thorny, stubborn roses from his hair. "I met the new pilots at Gotham. Here's Benjamin Harker..." Benjamin Harker, still in his flight jacket, now emerged from the crowd of awed men behind Polly. Joe held out his hand and Harker shook it slowly and reverently.

"It's an honor to meet you, sir," he said. Joe simply smiled, but not too friendly. He was his subordinate, after all. Another man came out from behind Polly, carrying her luggage and in civilian clothes. But nothing would hide his strong resemblance.

"And this is Charlie - Charles Lufferbee," Polly said.

"Lufbery," Joe corrected. Lufbery took Joe's hand and shook it with just as much reverence as Harker, but twice as much nervousness. He never was a very outgoing person, and standing here, just two feet from Sky Captain himself, was incredible.

"Distant cousin?" Joe asked. Lufbery merely nodded - his lips seemed to be cemented together, and everything he had rehearsed to say to Sky Captain now seemed foolish and unsuitable. "It'd be a blessing if you were just half as good as your relative, Mr. Lufbery."

"Thank you, sir," Lufbery croaked. Joe studied his features as well as he could without appearing to. It was uncanny. Though Charles had a slightly narrower face and looked, by far, younger, he appeared to be almost a brother, not even a distant cousin, of the WWI flying ace.

"You can release my hand now, Sergeant Lufbery," Joe said. Lufbery did, grinning sheepishly.

"Of course, sir."

The other new men followed after him eagerly, all shaking Joe's hand with youthful vivacity and nervous amazement. Joe smiled to each of them in turn, said a brief welcome, and at last when his hand was free he turned to the reporter.

"Now, Polly. How was the layover in Iceland?" Together they walked out from the crowded airport. Harker and Lufbery lugged their baggage behind them with the other pilots, Lufbery's face turning redder by the moment.

"I think I'll be able to fry an egg on your cheek any time soon," Harker said laughingly. "What's wrong?"

"I...oh, never mind," Lufbery sighed. He was nervous enough on the ground with Sky Captain - how would he rise up to the occasion in the future with the legend looking on?

* * *

**Starlight1534:** It IS short, ain't it? Well, most chapters I've wrote (respectively) take up two pages on my program. :o I thought that was enough until I posted it—now I see it isn't. But I really don't think my muse could hold up under such lengths, so to compensate I'll just try to update more often. 


	4. The Best

**A/N: **Yes, perhaps I should clear this up before anyone gets confused even more. No, Lufbery is not Joe's cousin. In World War I, Gervais Raoul Lufbery was an American of a French background. He flew with the Lafayette Escadrille—a group of Americans who flew against the Germans under French colors due to the fact that they could not join the war, the US being a neutral country. He was a prominent ace on the Allies' side and, when the US finally joined the war he was transferred to the American service and became Major Lufbery of the 94th Aero Squadron. Lufbery finally died when battling a German pilot: his plane caught fire and he jumped out of the cockpit to get impaled on a fence below. He had seventeen confirmed kills and probably numerous unconfirmed.

* * *

**4**

**the best**

"That's like a damned blow to the head," Benjamin Harker moaned after swigging down a dark concoction. "Like a damned mule's kick. Give me more of that stuff." He set down his glass heavily on the counter, and Charles Lufbery took it and began mixing some more, smiling silently.

Three weeks at the Legion's base south of Paris had been enough time to settle into the airbase's routine and prove that Ben and Charlie, though not the best pilots, were both solid and dependable in the air. Their personalities, also, were projected into their flying: Ben had a knack for tricks and other daredevil manuevers, while Charlie was plain and almost boringly pragmatic.

But despite their differences, they were nearly inseparable. Though there were many new pilots, Ben and Charlie had been together since the beginning. Perhaps it was that old saying "opposites attract" that made them as close as they were; Ben was the friend of near everyone in the Legion, a loud but likable man. Charlie had been reserved and quiet, friendly but not sociably so. Many just knew him by face - the face that looked so remarkably like his well-known relative.

But no one openly spoke about it, and Charlie didn't mind. He didn't want to be reminded of the legend that he was constantly being compared to, especially when he was very far from being decently comparable. Reflecting briefly on these thoughts, he took a sip from a now full glass and grimaced.

"How the hell do you drink this stuff?"

"Easy," Ben laughed, taking the glass from his friend's hand. "You tip it into your mouth and swallow." He demonstrated and Charlie laughed, "I should've known." He began mixing another drink - a milder drink - and when he was satisfied, he took a tentative sip.

"That's not even a proper drink," Ben said. "You can make good stuff, but you don't drink it. You're a strange man, always been." Charlie smiled again, but before he could respond, he cocked his head and put a finger to his lips. Down the hallway, they heard angry voices.

"No, no, _no_, Polly! My place is here. If the Germans make one move, I'll know it and I'll be on the spot. But Shanghai?"

"I can't go to there _alone_, Joe. You know how dangerous it is."

"It's out of the question, Polly. You know better than anyone how many tip-offs have turned out to be lies. I'm not traveling halfway across the world for something that's not true. It's a waste of time."

"Not exactly hard to hear them, is it?" Ben whispered over his glass. Charlie shook his head.

"It's not them," he said, going to the window. He stared over the empty sky, the most silently and innocently empty sky, and felt some sort of sixth sense in him nagging his rational thoughts. He paused, thought, _There's nothing there, you idiot. What the hell's wrong with you?_ But some little voice, some instinct, argued, _Just wait, just wait, something's coming, closer, closer, almost, _now

"Something's coming." As soon as the words left his lips, the alarm blared out. Joe and Polly's voices fell quiet and for a moment, no human voices could be heard. The next moment, it was chaos. Ben bolted for the door, knocking down his chair and glass. Charlie was right behind him. In the hallway they nearly collided with Joe. The captain merely nodded at them before dashing on.

They tore into the hangar as fast as lightning, arriving there first. Joe jammed his flight cap down on his ears and snatched his goggles, leaping into his familiar Warhawk in what seemed like a blink of an eye. Ben and Charlie were slightly slower, but right behind him. Against the gray afternoon sky, Charlie caught a glimpse of a tight formation of planes just over the soft line of the horizon, just out of range of the antiaircraft fire.

"Who is it?" Charlie heard the yells of pilots piling out onto the airfield, running for their planes. "Who are those bastards?" He ignored the shouts and taxied for the runway, Ben in front of him. He didn't care who they were at the moment. He just cared about shooting them down.

Ben took off in front of him, a smooth curve up into the heavens. Charlie felt himself inhale sharply, but it seemed as if he was simply a spectator. His body did everything it had been trained to do with otherworldly calmness, even though vivid anxiety and excitement laced through his brain. He ran his Warhawk down the runway, nosed her up, felt the exhilarating and almost frightening feeling of the wheels leaving the ground...and then he was up and soaring, the earth falling away, an insignificant backdrop compared to the vast and free space of sky...

He saw Ben out of the corner of his eye, matching his speed perfectly and falling into a triangular formation with Sky Captain in the lead, the arrowhead of the attack. The sight of the two pilots jolted him back to reality, and the thrill of flying was subdued. This was a battle, not a joy ride. Behind him, he could sense two more pilots taking off and following them, heading straight for the dots in the distance, those offending little specks that would become offending planes in just a matter of moments.

"Follow my lead," Sky Captain crackled over the transmitter. A pause, then, "And remember that the Flying Legion expects the best from every one of its men." Lufbery felt a strange chill go down his spine, and he zipped up his flight suit, knowing full well that would do little to repel the feeling. He nodded to himself, checked the altimeter restlessly, twitched his fingers that were wrapped around the control stick.

"The best from every one," he repeated to himself. "The best."


	5. Lions and Bears

**5**

**lions and bears**

The indistinct dark smudges now formed into the silhouettes of six planes flying in close formation, all of them

40 Warhawks. As soon as they caught sight of Sky Captain's formation, they made a tight swerve and headed out, away from the airbase over the green wilderness. Charlie followed the Captain as he veered to pursue them, and the three other pilots, Ben included, did so as well. For a couple of tense minutes the distance remained the same between the two formations, but then it began to close as Sky Captain's planes put in some extra speed.

Charlie had been totally unused to the technology of the Flying Legion when he had arrived. After gingerly testing his own Warhawk, he had been amazed at Dex's ingenuity. Joe's faithful friend had not only spent his time inventing metal-melting rays and some useless gadgets, but improved planes. The Legion's Warhawks could now fly for longer amounts of time due to a cleverly designed fuel tank that allowed for more fuel without compromising the weight and maneuverability of the plane. There were also additional weapons, but they had been extremely expensive to install. Dex had been forced to give in to the dwindling budget and only outfit Sky Captain's plane with the superior weaponry - Joe, after all, was the one who would put it the best use.

The unidentified planes were almost within range. Charlie fidgeted in his seat and suddenly realized how cold his feet were - he had forgotten to put on his warm boots and was wearing his old thin ones. Grinding his teeth with annoyance, he contemplated how long it would take after he landed to feel his extremities when Sky Captain crackled through the radio, "This is Sky Captain speaking. This is restricted air space. Identify yourselves or we'll open fire." The unidentified planes did not respond. Once again Sky Captain came in over the transmitter, "This is Sky Captain speaking. Identify yourselves or _we will fire_." Again, no response. Charlie was beginning to lapse into his contemplation of his numb feet again. A hot water bottle would do the trick, and several layers of blankets...

Sky Captain opened fire, the machine guns chattering cold and harsh at the foe. Their formation broke and scattered, fading into swathes of cloud. Charlie forgot his numb feet entirely and focused on their dark shapes scattering throughout the air. He caught a glimpse of their insignia, painted beneath the cockpit: a bear in mid-roar. He smirked. How would bears measure up to lions?

"Pick your man," Sky Captain's voice again. "I'll take two." Their formation dispersed, Charlie pursuing a Warhawk that had dived abruptly down. He fought to get within surer range, fought to aim an accurate hit. The enemy was pulling off some tricky maneuvers and making sharp turns and veers, having no intention of making it remotely easy.

"Come on," Charlie muttered. "Almost there..." He fixed him, let out a burst of fire, but at that split second the other pilot flew straight into a dense patch of cloud and disappeared. "Son of a bitch!" He pulled the Warhawk up, but still hurtled straight into the clouds. In the distance, he could hear the fire of other planes. For a few seconds he was surrounded by endless, cold gray, and then he shot out into clear, open sky just in time to see a Warhawk explode into flames and begin a sickening spiral down to the solid ground, trailing behind a plume of black smoke. For some agonizing moments it seemed suspended in midair, and then it crashed into the earth, bursting into a hellish inferno.

"Who's that?" Charlie spoke through the radio, feeling a stab of fear. He already knew, had seen the Lion insignia on the side. Ben's voice replied, "One of ours." The stab turned into a horrible void, but the adrenaline soon pumped the feeling out of Charlie's veins. He scanned the skies for his man, saw him and aimed, fired...The enemy darted out of range, and Charlie, even more vengeful now, followed him.

He dived again, following his quarry, an angry thrill rippling through him. The enemy dipped low, skimmed a tree-clad ridge and suddenly vanished into a cloud. Charlie pulled around, scanned the air, ground his teeth in frustration..._That tricky bastard_...He circled for a moment before pulling up. A second later, the air erupted with the rapid patter of machine gun fire, and Charlie caught a glimpse of his enemy hurling out of nowhere from his right. He made a quick loop, attempted to circle around and get the advantage, and he did. He let out a volley of fire, saw it hit the enemy plane but not do any lasting damage - but it shook up his foe, who made a rather panicked jerk upward. Charlie, smiling grimly, followed once again.

The aerial clash seemed to go on for hours, but neither of them seemed to get the upper hand. Finally, when they rocketed into a particularly busy area, they both saw another Warhawk go down. Charlie couldn't see the insignia - it was too distant, too low. This one didn't spiral: he dived down and kept diving down until he rammed into the earth; an instant death. Charlie felt, again, that stab, and said quietly into the transmitter, "One of ours?"

"One of them," Sky Captain's voice returned. Charlie felt the stab vanish, and a smile spread over his face. He turned his head to look for his enemy, to begin the duel with refreshed vigor, but was surprised to see he had veered in the opposite direction, along with his fellow pilots, fast withdrawing. Sky Captain gave the signal, and the Legion pilots peeled off from the fight as well, heading back for the base. It hit him then. Charlie suddenly felt exhausted, wanting simply to get on the ground as soon as possible and have a steaming cup of coffee, and when he thought back on the Legion pilot that wouldn't be returning with them, he wanted it all the more.


	6. Only Four

**6**

**only four**

Dex abandoned his usual post inside the aerodrome and joined Polly, the mechanics and some of the lagging pilots out on the open airfield. Angry clouds were gathering into what threatened to be a storm, but something else dampened the Legion's spirits. As Sky Captain's squadron came into view, the men focused their binoculars anxiously on the returning heroes and gravely murmured to each other. Usually there was cheering and smiling, along with several appropriate, praising oaths in Sky Captain's favor, the commander being, though recklessly independent, well liked and respected. Even Polly, who was mostly ignorant of the aerial world and failed to pick up any knowledge despite her time with Joe, noticed the grimness of the pilots as they watched the approaching formation, taking long, sullen draughts from their cigarettes or brandy glasses, fidgeting and chuckling nervously.

"What's wrong?" she asked quietly, not wanting to disturb the solemn talk. Dex lowered his binoculars, masticating his chewing gum with alarming gravity.

"Five pilots went out," he said, displaying his hand with five fingers up as if Polly was a poorly informed child—which indeed she was on the topic of pilots and planes and warfare. He handed her the binoculars, his eyes fixed on the approaching Warhawks. "Only four are coming back." Before he could hold up his hand with four fingers up, Polly drew in a sharp breath, seizing the binoculars from Dex's hand and pressing them to her eyes. He was right—four Warhawks in a rather loose formation were making their way back.

"Joe…?" she questioned, unable to recognize the markings on each plane. Dex shook his head, smiled ruefully and said, "No, not Joe." Polly breathed a deep sigh of relief, but she still felt the oppressive atmosphere that pervaded the airbase. It seemed like an eternity before the Warhawks touched down and taxied into the hangar, and when they did Joe climbed slowly out of his cockpit without so much as a glance at the apprehensive Polly, let alone the pilots that had gathered around. They already knew, knew what faces had returned and the one that had not, but it seemed blasphemous to not hear the name from Joe's lips. With expectant faces they watched their captain, waiting for the foregone news to break.

"Randy Moore," he said, calm and stone-like. His voice echoed in the usually bustling hangar, echoing strangely in the large, cold space. "Randy Moore went down." He didn't say anything else—indeed, didn't _need_ to—and simply walked away. The crowd began to disperse, some muttering quietly, others silent, all wearing long faces. A death, though not unexpected, as always a nasty, somber shock and Randy Moore was a valued lieutenant who had showed extraordinary potential.

Charlie climbed slowly from the cockpit, clumsily finding the ground. Ben joined him and they began to the long trek back to the bar form whence they had originally come, not bothering to remove their flight gear except for their flight caps, which Charlie tore off with tired vehemence.

"I need a coffee," he sighed. Ben studiously examined his flight goggles, but his eyes were distant and faraway.

"I need one of your drinks," he said after a moment. And both of them indulged in their own different ways late into the night.

* * *

In his dark office, Joe sat numbly at his desk. He stayed that way for at least half an hour, motionless but thoughtful. Almost as an afterthought, he slid open a drawer and retrieved the familiar Milk of Magnesia as well as a glass, pouring the milk-white liquid in one smooth move achieved after years of custom. Even then, he was distant and absent-minded. It had been a long time since the Legion had lost a pilot, perhaps too long. They had become complacent, forgotten about the risk of war. Did they think that only infantrymen suffered? It was easy to forget that a pilot was, in many ways, just as vulnerable as a grounded soldier. Many were taking it too lightly, pulling off tricks and capers as if they were invincible, the free air intoxicating their senses. But no one was, no one—he was roused out of his reverie by a knock on the door, called, "Come in." The door swung open and Dex appeared in the threshold. 

"What news, Dex?" Joe asked briskly, shaking off any signs of his recent trance-like state. "Did you identify the plane we shot down?" He took a sip from his glass, pulled a wry face.

"Sorry, Cap," Dex replied. "It had a tidy self-destruct mechanism. Sergeant Henderson went in to take a look as soon as you got back, but it went up in flames before he could see anything important and exploded into smithereens." Joe was quiet for a moment, and then: "And Moore?"

"Gone, Cap," Dex answered softly. "Almost nothing left. Fire took care of that." He didn't need to elaborate, but even so Joe secretly shivered in his thick flight jacket. He couldn't imagine what it would be like to end in such a way, such agony.

"I want those planes tracked, Dex, and I want their whereabouts known immediately."

"I'm on it. I'll have every station reporting in and if there's so much as a duck landing somewhere in Tokyo you'll know."

"Thanks, Dex," Joe said. Dex left, closing the door quietly behind him. As soon as Joe heard his footsteps fade down the hallway, he opened his drawer again, pulling out a clean sheet of paper and a fountain pen. He hated this business, but it was his duty. He wouldn't have an untimely newspaper article or radio newscast delivering the news. With infinite care, he began his letter: _To the parents of Lieutenant Randall Moore; I have the greatest and most sincere regret to inform you…_

_

* * *

_

Despite Dex's claim, a week passed without so much as a word on the mysterious, unregistered planes. Dex and Polly worked fervently on the case, calling numerous contacts but turning up with nothing. Britain and the United States were clueless, France snapped that it had far more important matters at hand, and Germany denied any attacks on the mercenary base. Joe was getting frustrated enough to comb the skies himself, and he often went out on early patrols before anyone else was up, circling the aerodrome knowing perfectly well that the enemy would be long gone but vengeful anyway. Yet all of Dex and Polly's digging paid off at the end of the second week.

"Cap!" Dex barked, bent over a chart with Polly. They had drawn all sorts of incomprehensible symbols and notes on it, and the original map was almost concealed by their doodles. Joe joined them, all geared up as he had just returned from an early patrol.

"What is it?"

"Shanghai station called in just now. Said they had gotten reports of some unidentified Warhawks around northern China, around…here." Dex pointed at the map to a boldly penned symbol, and Joe's eyes followed his finger.

"Beijing?" Joe's voice faltered for a moment with doubt. "How can you be sure they're the ones we're looking for?"

"They have the bear emblem," Polly said, a subtle smirk curving her lip. Joe saw it and let out an exasperated sigh, "Oh, _no_, Polly…please don't gloat—"

"It looks like we're going to China after all," she said, brushing away his comment. "Come on, we haven't a moment to lose."

* * *

Charlie set his coffee down, scowling at the newspaper that was spread before him. Though it was nine in the morning, the bar was full of pilots exchanging rumors, jokes, and witticisms. Ben was gently coaxing a radio he had repaired, refusing to allow Dex to tamper with it. It did not, however, appear to work very well yet, and Ben decided he would take a quick break before making a fresh attempt at persuading it to tune into anything but static. Instead he joined Charlie at his table, saw his friend's face, and gave him a simple questioning look. 

"Take a look," Charlie said, tapping the print. There, in bold letters, the headlines read: _MYSTERY PLANES CLAIM LIFE OF LEGION PILOT; IS SKY CAPTAIN AND CO. LOSING THEIR TOUCH? _

"Took a while, didn't it?" Ben said grimly. Polly had exerted all her effort to prevent any falsities and exaggerations from creeping into the story, but in two weeks reporters had snatched up the crumbs of what little information they could find and turned it into a highly decorated tale. Polly had written her own account, extricating the accurate version from the pilots who had followed Sky Captain in the battle, but the _Chronicle_'s sales were sadly outstripped by the _Independent_'s; its thrilling if exceedingly distorted description was more appealing to excited readers.

"'Sky Captain immediately took to the skies with five of his pilots, engaging the unknown planes in a head-on encounter…six Legion planes pitted against six mystery…a heated duel…Lieutenant Randall Moore shot down while the Legion scored no kills—' Spelled your name wrong, Charlie, right here. 'Charles Loveberry among those involved in the conflict.' What the hell is this?" Ben yanked the paper up, scanning the lines.

"The _Independent_," Charlie replied, taking a gulp of coffee and setting the cup down with unnecessary violence. Ben continued to read aloud, and the bar was suddenly hushed as they listened in seething rage: "'Can Sky Captain be trusted to guard the skies? Can the Legion compare to this latest menace?' I'll be damned."

"I'll be damned too," chimed in another. "The _Independent_'s all over and blew Polly out of the picture, the bastards." Though Polly had achieved little, the pilots still valued her efforts and loyally scorned all other newspapers and their outrageous stories.

"Quiet!" bellowed a pilot who had taken Ben's place. He had successfully tuned into something, and now the words came through well enough in the familiar stimulated tone of a newscast: _"Lieutenant Randall Moore was shoot down in gallant defense of the Legion's airbase and the mystery planes escaped unscathed except for a few minor damages. Sky Captain is beginning to come under fire from various military commanders who claim his conduct fails to equate to his past accomplishments—"_

"I'll break that damn radio again if we keep getting that bogus," muttered Albert Rogers at the piano in the corner. "Newspapers love a tragedy, you know. Good news means no news for them." He caressed a light tune from the keys, but, as spirits took a downward turn, eventually fell into stroking out one of Beethoven's sonata that, even then, seemed too optimistic for the circumstances. Charlie swirled the last of his coffee around the bottom of his cup, feeling despondent and helpless. He and the other pilots in the skirmish had been accused, too, of inadequate endeavors to bring down the "mystery planes," but that had been mere schoolboys' name-calling in comparison to what abuseSky Captain endured. Joe took it with indifference, seemed to deflect it without any trouble, but most of the guilt fell on the devoted Legion pilots. They just needed one chance, one opportunity, and they would snap it up in a moment to redeem the Legion's tarnishing reputation, however realistically little that tarnish was.

Charlie lifted his coffee to his lips and was about to finish it when the door slammed open. Dex stood there beaming, chewing furiously on his ever-present chewing gum.

"Boys, pack up. Some of you are headed for China."


	7. Eastbound

**7**

**eastbound**

The responsibility of arranging the trip to China was left to Polly after Dex conspicuously focused more attention than normal on his gadgets and Joe vanished into his office saying he had some paperwork to do ("You've always left that to the secretary," Polly had said, but Joe had conveniently not heard her).

The task was hair-rippingly difficult. China was divided into two political parties: the Kuomintang, or the Nationalist Party, and the burgeoning Communist Party. They had distinctly different values, beliefs, and leaders, but they attempted to set aside their differences in the face of much larger threat: the Japanese invasion. Hungry for resources, the Japanese stretched in northern China, conquering slices of land and were inexplicably moving down to Beijing. The country was in a state of potentially deadly confusion as the dominant Kuomintang wavered before the Japanese threat and the Communists, poorly equipped but determined, took their stand against the foreign attackers.

For one of the few times in his life, Joe's impulse of making a quick trip alone to wherever he felt like going had to be restrained—flying right into the chaos of Asian political affairs and a budding war would not be wise. He had been poised on flying to Beijing in the blink of an eye after the sightings were reported, but through Polly's insistence he had settled down to wait for the arrangements to be finalized, and decide on the pilots that he would take with him. He would have to compromise strength with subtlety—the more planes, the more notice, and that notice might not be beneficial. However, the less planes he took with him, the less notice, even though it meant less firepower. It also meant—and a simple look at the faces of the Legion pilots told him this—that if he faced the five remaining mystery planes with less than their number and triumphed, he would restore all his former glory and more.

And so the pilots were lined up in the hangar, carefully surveyed by Sky Captain. His keen olive eyes swept over each one of them, so intense that each seemed to shrink in stature beneath his gaze. And then he glanced at two. His voice rang out, metallic and grating, "You two." The other pilots stared in wonder as Charles Lufbery and Benjamin Harker stepped forward. What quality had the captain seen in tem? What had singled them out of all the rest? And two _new_ people, too. Not two veterans, but two recent additions to the Legion—and they weren't even the best fliers.

"Dismissed, the rest of you." The pilots slouched away in a disorganized mob, relaxing the instant they left the line. A few tossed looks behind them at Ben and Charlie who stood still rigidly at attention, their faces blank and impersonal, but eventually filtered away to their old haunts to exchange gossip about the new turn of events.

Sky Captain approached the pair, looked them both in the eye. Charlie had a difficult time keeping his face straight, feeling that he would collapse or look away, every fiber in him tightened to nervous tension. And then the captain spoke, "Pack your necessities. Sergeants Harker and Lufbery, you are heading for Beijing."

* * *

The same precious copy of the _Independent_ had finally gotten into Joe's hands after it had been read through and through by the Legion. He smoothed out the crinkled pages and spread it over his desk by the dim lamp though it was daylight outside. When Polly made her entrance, he had the pages scattered every which way with an expression of intense unconcern on his face. But she knew well enough.

"Any interesting news?" she asked, occupying herself with the filing cabinet by the door. Joe tossed an absent look in her direction and tapped a column: _NEW ANTI-PLANES GUNS BOUGHT BY BRITISH._ He gazed meaningfully down at the words and began to read aloud: "'Military experts are especially enthusiastic about one extremely efficient 40-millimeter anti-aircraft gun that fires tracer projectiles and has an automatic adjustment to a moving target.'" Polly disengaged herself from the filing cabinet and swept the page off the desk, revealing another that read: _VERSAILLES PACT WHITTLED AWAY._ She took it up and scanned the text, pursing her lips.

"'Ignoring the Treaty of Versailles, Germany is constructing a navy up to 35 percent of the British Navy and this navy includes treaty-forbidden submarines. By imposing conscription Germany has recruited an army far beyond the treaty limit of 100,000 men. She is equipping complete mechanization, including weapons forbidden by the treaty. Despite treaty terms, she has organized a combative air force. Germany no longer respects the treaty stipulation that she leave her western frontier unfortified and unoccupied by armed forces. The German Rhineland is now in the process of militarization.' Joseph—" Polly began, but Joe had stood up.

"I want to warn you, Polly," he said. "I go to avenge Moore, not to follow a false lead. I'm going to shoot down planes, not be a damn detective. And once I shoot down those planes, I'll be back here when the storm breaks. No stories, Polly, and no damn photographs either. We're flying straight into the middle of a war, and I'm a commander. If lose a man because of some idiotic delay…" A heavy silence. Polly appeared hurt, and Joe almost regretted having said what he had said. She knew more about Eastern affairs than he did, after all.

"I understand," she said quietly. "No stories." She avoided his eyes, laid some papers on his desk. "I have arrangements for a empty aerodrome in Beijing, evacuated earlier in October. We'll have to be quick because the Japanese are rapidly moving down from Manchuria. We have no official clearance to bring any planes into the country, but in its state of war no one will pay attention. The Nationalists are corrupt, and the Communists are too busy fighting the Japanese…" She explained the rest of the logistics in a monotone voice, impersonal and mechanical. At last she made to leave, reached for the doorknob.

"Polly, wait…" Joe caught her arm and held it. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," she replied coldly. Joe grinned mischievously, and with one easy, smooth motion brought her lips to his.

"Just in case," he said, detaching himself and returning to his chair, "I don't have the chance in Beijing." Polly sighed noisily in response and left, but a smile had spread over her lips.

* * *

As the three Warhawks swooped up into the lonely sky, the pilots and mechanics left behind cheered and wished last good-luck's. Charlie glanced back at the now tiny figures until they disappeared behind a cloud. He then turned to his controls, checking the altimeter and curling his toes with satisfaction. He had worn his fur-lined boots today.

The "baggage", so to speak, had been divided out among the three planes: Polly flew with Joe, Dex with Ben, and Charlie was left with anything inanimate. He was not, however, disturbed at having a heap of suitcases behind him—he was not a talkative person when flying, finding the solitude heavenly, a sort of paradise so different from the mundane, solid ground. Dex and Ben, however, both possessing active minds and temperaments, began to feel the weight of doing virtually nothing as the hours dragged on. To alleviate the boredom, Dex began to bombard Joe with questions of the trip, but was met by a sharp reprimand.

"Stop hogging the radio. I'm trying to reach Franky," Joe snapped, tinkering with the transmission. Behind him, Polly burst out after a moment's thoughtful hesitation, _"Franky?" _

"No need to yell," Joe said, wincing.

"Franky Cook?"

"Yes, Franky Cook. But I can't find her anyway. Last week she simply cut off any contact."

"Good," Polly muttered. Joe didn't hear her.

"I've tried tracking her down, but she's covered any traces of her progress." Joe leaned back in his seat, his brow furrowed. "What was that, Polly?" Polly brushed a strand of golden hair off her shoulder and sighed.

"Nothing. Nothing at all."

* * *

**A/N: **Newspaper articles are not from the Independent but taken from the New York Times. 


End file.
